Closet Hinge
by glassgrass
Summary: 'Go ahead, lock the door and throw away the key, but closets have hinges and your skeletons are restless'. Mike is counting down towards an implosive mental breakdown. Meanwhile, Zoey may have point break lost it years ago along with other integrities. R&R. Betas needed, please. Rating may alter later.
1. Chapter 1

Intro: Hades Over Persephone

* * *

No matter what dream, angle, or acidic psychedelic visage, it's always Zoey endlessly smiling behind a dizzy Tuscan veil. A reeling grainy film from a world over if not a reverie of carnage red lips and worry lines. Amongst all personal experiences and petty nocturnal romances, Mike never deemed someone like Zoey to claim a hefty 90 percent ratio of his thoughts, the remaining reminding him to breathe.

His mind ran on Zoey, he couldn't vouch for the others, though. They had particular tastes and expectations for women if not always women, per se. His other personalities had certain peculiar tastes. But none the less, it's Zoey that's doing _him_ in this time around, and it's making him god damn bothered.

Before Zoey it was always tall girls, dark girls, girls with sharp nails and razor blade lashes. Girls who look less like Zoey and even less hope to _be_ like her. They were mean spirited girls, the kind to spit gum in your mouth when you kiss them, and likely to have boyfriends or partake in love decagons. Mike, on the other hand, cycles through a lifeless, hopeless, love circle. But that's beside the point, love or not it didn't change the fact that he's been pining like a premenstrual tween over Zoey.

Oh, Zoey.

You didn't even have to_ say _hello_. _You had me right before.

* * *

Heads-Up: I admit I'm not a fan of Zoey's character on TD. To me she isn't as enthralling as the other characters and lacks major appeal, thus I thought it be fun to develop her myself. Zoey is too sweet for her own good, and I'm not sold on that cute, innocent demeanor. So, I'm taking up creative license on her and a bit with Mike. Everything in the past has happened until the final episode of TDAS. I will try to validate Zoey's character during her airing time, but I warn that off air she will be justifiably OC just as Mike may become later on. By the way, don't be shy, please review! I will be uploading longer chapter, but this is a sample or intro if you will. Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One: How to Plant a Closet Whore

* * *

At winter's end, summer came intertwined with each passing boy from a distant blaring horizon.

Bright and lashing, at first, like lightning upon a storm, Zoey reveled in the sheer jolt of the experience, the toying, the teasing, the games. Unlike most, she was the first to let go, cutting off whoever she tethered into a thunderous pang of sudden abandonment. Zoey had dreams of herself swaying and laughing and crying with those boys, too. But some dreams were more realistic than others. Rather, she followed a path similar to the one her mother had treaded from the moon and back. Dreams of becoming electrical like searing sizzling wires upon a dreary backdrop. Dreams of wanderlust, boundless barriers, and wasteland ideals buried within old Hollywood films.

Dreams of becoming _unforgettable. _

As years shot by, the memory of her mother had grown warped and wayward like pipedreams. Only across a million telephone wires could her mother validate her own existence in Zoey's life. However, Rosie's voice, that enigma speaking from her telephone receiver, dash and divided like a billion stars across a vacant galaxy that Zoey traced into constellations of her own creation. Within those constellations she hoped and fantasized she'd find herself within their glow. Some bordered upon her and others wink out of existence lost to the ever changing tides of a singular human life, but the fantasy never wavered.

She was only a girl - not a very popular one at that but blatantly beautiful. Unfortunately, upon series of ill-fated events, Zoey realized mediocrity outmatch peculiarity any day in an old-cultured town like Princeton. She was a _few and far between_ kind of girl. But she carried on with burdens and all and played with the boys instead.

Her mother always compared herself to Zoey. They shared an internal inner indecisiveness as infinite as the sky. But Rozie was a deliciously cruel femme fatale who could Bump Uglies and takes the bitch seat of a motorbike like a princess the second after. Whereas Zoey was deceptively endearing and achingly tantalizing to a T. But, she was more inclined to tease the brains out of a boy and jet the second he could undo his belt.

Zoey was sweet and endearing and knew how to use her words. And when she looks at you it was like the entire universe had collapse within itself. It was a look of otherness that saw too far out from reality, and thoughts that reach the edge of the universe. She had that about her. That ability to make one-track minded boys hold her hand longer than they ever anticipated. But like her mother she had frail hands made for touching not holding.

And apparently that made her a tease. A closet slut.

So Zoey was careful, you could never be too careful with boys, because truth be told, male tongue can wag as much as its counterpart. That's why her mother ditch Princeton for some fella with a face tattoo and a Harley. She wasn't careful. In fact, she was too prideful and dogged, but it all shattered when not one store in Main Street would flip the OPEN sign for her. The exertion and solitude was so bad she left with the first guy who complimented her hair at the local men's bar and left for somewhere else.

Her mother wasn't much of a reader, however she would have marveled at the similarity between her and Hester Prynne. Remarkably similar the two are and at the same time awfully dissimilar. Hester Prynne had stayed with her daughter during the entire duration of The Scarlet Letter, Rozie had not. Zoey guessed her mama just didn't have the tolerance to stand for intolerance at all…even for the sake of her daughter.

Speaking of intolerance Zoey was heading home after a long day of school. Sheesh, the entire staff was the epitome of chauvinism at its finest and don't get her started with the youths who ran rampant inside. It was sad when the assumed stereotype of an individual is spot on to the very core. Here in Princeton, the Jocks were Jocks and the Preps were Preps. No exception. No in-betweener. No dice. Either you embrace the norm or brace becoming the scapegoat.

No if, ands, or buts.

Pulling the brake of her cornflower blue messenger bike, the white wheels squealing from the abruption, she jumps off before it could halt. Then, she accompanies it to the front porch to set it aside. Zoey rang the buzzer of the old wood frame house and waited, taking a second to run her red nail across the blistering Pepto-Bismol paint along its prickly paneling. She could still spot the deep scrapes along the side she'd made with her nails months ago during a fit of stale boredom much like now. No one answered so she held the buzzer down unforgivingly, the sound screeching and nerve-wracking as a running electric chair.

The door didn't open, but she heard a deep wet mannish voice. "The window's open!"

"You gotta be kidding me," she rang the doorbell six times consecutively just to spite the man and rounded the left corner of the house.

The second Zoey will accept her uncle's unwillingness to be courteous is the day she'll accept the lie that he's somewhat sane. She rolled her eyes and climbed her way in the open kitchen window, she chucked her Doc Martens boots on the table below before sliding in completely.

Obviously, he was sitting there, slumped over the table with a kettle of piping Joe as he scans through today's obituaries. He was wearing the same bomber jacket he worn ever since she had the cerebral capabilities to recognize it wasn't a grizzly skin condition wrapped around his torso. He fell back on the leather cushion of his chair, a chair specifically meant for a monocle wielding gentleman. On the contrary, he had a bedraggled balding appearance of a disgruntled, ill-tempered, Leprechaun. She could only smile.

"What's up, Buttercup," She cooed. Realizing her uncle hadn't even dropped the top half of his paper yet, she waited.

He halves his paper, giving Zoey a measured look teetering between irritable and constipated. "Get those mud stompers off the table, girly. If Misty finds a scuff mark on that acid trip table of hers I'm sic'ing her on you," he gurgled, flipping the top half of his paper back up, he continued on to the next dead bloke.

She slid off the table. The table at some period of time was darling, but now it was splintered, uneven, and ultimately tie dyed. Yet, it held endearing qualities that match no other, and Zoey took pity upon her unrighteous brutality to the slab with legs and placed her boots on the floor instead. She took a seat from across Uncle Gale.

"Well' I'm home," she started.

"And I'm constipated." he ended.

_No grace._ Zoey chided. _This man has no grace at all._

"Fingers crossed you're speaking in terms of emotions," Zoey sang sweetly, crossing her arms upon the shaky table to keep it steady.

"Yes and -," he took a watery swig from the kettle spout, "- I'm also speaking in physical terms."

"How about this, maybe you shouldn't drink coffee," she paused, "And maybe you shouldn't drink coffee straight out of the pot, Gale. Use the mug Misty made you? The tie dye one?"

She always sounded like she was begging when she tried to come off commanding.

"Sold it yesterday."

"You sold it?"

"Don't like it. Don't want it. Don't need it."

"Yes you do!" _You Neanderthal_. "Misty made it for you!"

"Misty makes a lot of things. And this conversation never happened, except the part where I'm intestinally challenged."

_My God, are you serious?_

"Now why would you want me to remember that," she chided.

"Today, my dear, you're taking a bullet for me. You're doing my shift today. You're running the shop. Why? Because all of us agreed that we unconditionally loved each other at one point or another and that includes you staying home and running it for the sake of my poor, old, white, saggy-"

_Oh God!_

"I get it! I'll take over. Am I stocking today?"

He grunted, "Nope. Just man the register and the land line. Misty can't today; she's outing."

"Outing?"

"Outing, outing," he emphasized with a high brow. It was the kind of brow lift meant to signify a hush-hush subject between two shady individuals. She only understood when he pinched his pointer finger and thumb together to suck the tips and blow a fake puff. She could almost see the fake smoke swirling about.

_Ohhh_, Zoey caught the drift.

Misty, her uncle's girlfriend of twenty years, was hitting the joint, tokening up, doing the big ol' Hippi Letace, and so on. It wasn't much of a shocker that Misty was doing it, but the fact that Uncle Gale caught on jolted her. Still, she wasn't going to instigate further if he couldn't even tell her in his own kitchen.

"Thank you."

Zoey caught his eye, she wasn't sure if he was thanking her for the forced labor or dismissing Misty's need to weed.

"S-sure. What wouldn't I do for you, Uncle Gale. You're like the coolest, nifty, outta sight, Dapper Dan man I've ever-"

"Pop off, loser."

He didn't even let her finish, but she was already past the living room entrance with boots in hand before he could toss her there himself. She crossed the cherry wood, and weaved her way upstairs avoiding the pile upon pile of second hand riches.

Before, she was able to walk through the house easily, now wasn't the case. These days it was practically an impossible feat without smashing through randomly placed china cabinets or head-butting a dear head mount. The majority of the walls were no longer walls but shelves cluttered with old knick knacks, toys, plates, records, and other forgotten memorabilia. The ceiling was practically dripping with stained glass chandeliers, Christmas lights, and other discombobulated floating objects much like orbs of elusive apparitions. The house was large and was sectioned of like a labyrinth of unappreciated ancient treasures, every corner had a theme, and every nook and cranny had a hidden wonder. The displays ran along from the main entrance of the house through the hall, the living room, the dining room then up along the stairs and into the two joint guest rooms. The only spare rooms left were the master bedroom and the guest bathroom down the hall.

She pulled the door to the bathroom on the second floor, dumping her boots and messenger bag into a shell-shaped sink. She climbed into the tub stuffed to the brim with comforters next to a stand-in shower, and pulled out her tablet from the expelling fluff.

Yup, in the end, her uncle decided that she was at that age where a personal bathroom was a necessity for a growing teenage girl. So, he gave her the bathroom, and only the bathroom. Thanks to her Uncle's vulnerability to bribery, Misty coerce him into completely renovating the house into an antique store. It was illegal of course, to have a store within a residential district, but to their benefit the town's cops were just as enthusiastic as the next hoarder… and just as useless.

Zoey was back downstairs, fiddling with her tablet behind the cash register station next to the front entrance of the house. She was about to open a fresh tab until the front door open tinkling the chimes above its frame. A plump older woman came in cradling groceries upon a jutted hip.

"Best of evenings, Zoey," she sighed dreamingly.

"Hey, Misty. Heard you were –uhm- outing."

"Huh?" She was stunned for a moment, "Oh no, no, no, I said I was going out. Not outing. Don't be a bunny. Who said that?"

"Ga-"

"Gale. What a gasser. Why'd I marry him?"

She flipped a long silver braid behind her back to join its twin.

"You didn't", Zoey pointed out. "_He _never asked and _you_ never bothered."

Zoey started typing mindlessly into the fresh tab's search engine.

"And I'm still here?" Misty questioned the ceiling.

"And you're still here," Zoey replied instead.

She was still looking along the ceiling, the vines of fairy lights twisting and twirling here and there. The door brought in a strong enough breeze to set them swinging into each other like clackers – which a few were bound to be hanging from the ceiling too.

"…And you're okay with that?"

_Are we still talking about the same thing_, Zoey mused?

"Of course I'm okay with that," Zoey reassured her. "Apparently we agreed to unconditionally love one another. You're into that kind of stuff, right?"

Misty pushed up her circular Osborn glasses.

"Right on."

She nodded and waltzed her way into the kitchen.

_Weirdo_, Zoey thought, _acting like I didn't know. Of course I still want you around. _

The couple was just as offbeat as she was. One was cranky and emotionally sterile as a drill sergeant and the other was as mellow and free-loving flowerchild. The fact they hadn't married was understandable. They were total opposites, but then again something kept them together for the past twenty years without the weight of biological children and wedding bands. It was pure unadulterated, unconditional, undisputable love. Problem was one hadn't admitted it to the other, nevertheless it was there… just complicated.

Zoey could do that to a fault. She can actually do two things to a fault: Love a particular someone unconditionally and keep a closet full of aggravated secrets.

For example, one time her mother called her from a gas station in No Where's Montana at point blank midnight. It was a birthday call which would have been endearing if she had the date right, nonetheless Zoey just let her believe it was her birthday and filed the lie away with the stacks of others.

_Well, at least she called,_ Zoey reassured herself.

That should be enough. Because she did love her mother unconditionally, right?

She let her mother go on and on about why she decided to leave and, _oh_, how it wasn't Zoey's fault at all but entirely her own. The conversation shifted to the town going along the lines of how they were all woman bashing hosers who couldn't let a little kiss slide and how she couldn't let little Zoey get the blunt of the bashing, couldn't she. It was excuse Zoey would just have to accept, could you blame the older woman, the town is a bore. Still she was so wrong about the bashing, minor as it was there was some bitterness left. Bitterness directed at Zoey.

_Oh, fuck them,_ Zoey cursed, she was just going to have to live with it.

Or. _Or maybe…_

"Oh," Zoey exclaimed.

Upon her mindless toying of her tacky tablet, she noticed she had opened up her email account. The inbox notification just received an additional message, and one beyond package tracking reminders and homework notices. The subject simply read TDROTI.

Six characters and that was it. It could have spelled DOUCHE instead, but no, not this time. It was the exact six specific letters she needed to get out of here for summer break. The only way she'll get a break here in this town is if she was far, far away from the attention she was stirring here. She might have stepped out of the boundary of being ambiguous and she just needed to run without being another overdramatic drama queen. She was a bit of an attention whore. Just a bit, cross her heart, but _not_ a drama queen.

Princeton was just as unforgiving to floozies as to 17th-century Puritan Boston, Massachusetts was to their harlots. They were pretty much on its way into placing a scaffold in front of town hall at this rate. So Zoey treaded carefully, skillfully, stealthily like a fox or what not.

Ever since she entered elementary school she was getting peculiar attention. One time she was playing house with a pair of twin boys, she wanted to be the mom, and she had all the needed criteria to be mom, except one thing. A baby. So, she stuffed a Raggedy Anne doll under her shirt and BANG instant pregnancy. Laughter pursued amongst the three, catching the attention of her peers and that of Mrs. Toe. Especially Mrs. Toe. Absolutely appalled with Zoey, Hulk lock Zoey's smaller wrist and pulled her aside. Mrs. Toe yanked the ginger doll out of her shirt, tossed it in a bin, placed her in a corner and flipped her behavior card from green to red. Usually a student receives a warning before the humiliating card flip, but that wasn't the case today. Mrs. Toe turned to Zoey, a little taken back at what she did, but spite burst through when she saw one of the twins stuff Raggedy Anne into his blue Polo shirt. As she crossed the room she uttered a heated, "Miss. Booker, Time-out and no recess". Mrs. Toe didn't give her a chance to cry, and that day forward she would never touch a red headed doll again.

Sometime later in secondary school, Amber from locker 207 told Janet from 209 that, Mrs. Toe, her favorite elementary teacher, had divorced her husband because she couldn't forgive him for cheating on her those many years ago. Janet started rolling her eyes, and before she could complete the entire roll she caught Zoey shamelessly eavesdropping on the duo. Amber was clueless of Zoey. Janet, on the other hand was reeling from the perfect happenstance that Zoey happened to walk in on.

Janet let Amber continue.

"Wow. After like a trillion years she's still moping! Eat your heart out, Mrs. Camel-Toe. Hooker Booker still got your man in the bag. What a shame though, y'know? She's been gone for years, Amber, years and yet still…she's like a ghost."

It was Janet's turn to contribute, "Or like an STD".

On cue Zoey left.

_STD's, Janet, work more like the one on your lip, angel face, _Zoey jeered mentally.

Zoey zipped the corner and all the while she knew why Mrs. Toe disliked her. Mom was caught "playing house" with Mr. Toe and worse for Mr. Toe he couldn't get his act together after so many years.

Good.

Deep down Zoey was happy that Mrs. Toe was hurting as much as she hurt her. Still, it was kind of a low blow… who would wish that on someone?

None the less, she kept quiet, and carried on to the next class.

Gossip still brewed, it wasn't as inflamed as it was with the first instigator, her mom. Still they gave her overdue glances from time to time, nothing extremely antagonizing, but entirely analytical. She knew how to put a front up. It wasn't too hard really. It was a matter of timing, analyzing, deviating, and guiltless ass kissing. After she solidifies her innocence, the hard rock glares turn into somber glance overs and one, two, three, she gets off scot-free. Which was entirely better for her, no one can accuse a closet tease when she's under the radar.

Still she wanted to have some sort of release from here, and a million dollars and a free roundtrip ticket really didn't sound too bad.

She finally clicked the message and skimmed down till the very end.

**Zoey Booker, we congratulate you in becoming the next and new participating cast member in the fresh and upcoming reality show series Total Drama Revenge of The Island.**

"Yes!" Zoey exclaimed.

_This ought to be fun_.

* * *

I feel...overloaded? Yes thats it.

Anywho, thank you so much for reading and please review. It helps ALOT. Seriously.

On another note, Thank You to my betas that had contributed their time in this fic.

Hear, hear! to Technical Technicalities,  TheRandomGal42, and Loob88

Friendly Musical recommendation : Jagwar Ma - Come and Save Me.

More is on the way~


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Two: Smile Like You Hate It

* * *

When you were twelve you realized, with no amount of alarm, that you were not happy.

Of course, when you were younger you'd laugh a little here and there, but for some reason you could never reach the feeling associated with the laughter. You just never knew why, and if you tried the chances were you might have to face the sheer realization that you weren't being a crabby pre-teen. You were being a crabby and _sick_ pre-teen. The kind people wrote gut-wrenching novels about. The kind people pitied.

The kind people were afraid of.

Keep in mind you're just a little boy. You're a couple weeks shy from being thirteen with a mouthful of snaggleteeth, and an affinity for twisting your ankle on roof shingles like any other little adventurous Tom. Exception: You had the precarious ability to contradict yourself and blackout at climatic events.

Like, remember last week?

You were begging your dad for braces. Afterwards, you miraculously lost two maulers after the _discussion_ and for some god forsaken reason you couldn't remember how. Your mother was quick to slap a bag of frozen peas to your face like she did it too many times before.

You kind of remember that day a bit. She was wearing green, you were in blue, and Dad was wearing something in between. It was six in the afternoon and cold as the final circle of hell outside. You could easily see the body heat expel from deflated lungs. Lamb chops were on the dinner table today. Unfortunately for you, you didn't have much of an appetite after swallowing those two maulers. They got knocked down your throat after that stimulating_ conversation _you had with dad.

"How can you scarf anything else down today, kiddo?"

Dad said that. You smiled. Dad had a morbid sense of humor you could only take for granted.

Mom on the other hand had no sense of humor. She was frantic, always looking behind her like someone was going to jump from behind the kitchen counter with a tomahawk at hand or something sharper and unexpected. She's skittish. You'll remember that from that day and forward: Mom is skittish and Dad has a fondness for dark humor.

You'll remember that but forget other things just as important.

You don't remember this, but they sent you to get those braces.

The orthodontist had taken a liking to you and the feeling was mutual. He even let you pick out a super rad color scheme you would eventually regret at the end of the year. The orthodontist, Dr. Stubbs, he was going to take good care of you. He promised.

"Open up, son."

You did.

He had explained that he was going to glue brackets onto your teeth and put wires through them. He asks if you understood.

You did.

Didn't mean you were any less scared. Plus, something was making your gums itch and there was this awful flickering at the back of your mind. You were feeling scared, a little loose.

"You won't feel a thing," he reassured you. Then he pulled out something silver and pointed. "Now don't bite me, boy." He said smiling.

He stuck a single latex digit in your mouth, and your itching spell hadn't expelled, you're working up a cold sweat and -

You did.

You bit him, you dick.

If you could have recalled, you'd remember that blood taste a lot like car keys and that severed fingers didn't wiggle like they did in the movies.

What a load of crap. He said he was going to take good care of you and now he was bleeding in your mouth. You almost choked on the severed limb sliding down the slippery track of single-handed asphyxiation. His blood had flooded the inner corners of your mouth settling hot over your tonsils, and something cold sloshed within the coils of your gut. You couldn't even pinpoint an emotion at the moment or maybe ever again.

You spewed the blood (finger included) onto the floor, and took a good gander at Dr. Stubbs as he's twirling around the room in a hysterical bawling fit, and all the while you just smiled like he was in a swan princess get-up.

Oh, and how you _laughed_.

That wasn't you, was it?

But it was you! His blood, that finger, the teeth… and you.

That itchy feeling embedded within your gums hadn't ceased. It mutated and multiplied into other perturbed side effects. You're nails perforated holes into the chair you were shivering upon, there was a chill fluctuating within your marrows, and your heart battered against bone and flesh so brutally you were expecting tingles from your left arm.

Oh, and you were still laughing, meek and stupid as it was you still laughed.

And after all that heartfelt hilarity you finally, finally shut the hell up.

You didn't remember that did you?

"Home! We're going home, Michael. Get up now, boy. Up. **_Now_**!_" _Your Dad was the epitome of the wordpissed that day_._

He was grabbing at you in an iron clad vice your feet barely scraping the floor as he barrels you outside, and all along he's spitting out "shits" and "fucks" into your left ear like someone pissed in his mouth.

But, you don't remember that.

He's furious and disappointed, _again._ His hair is tasseled from all the repressed anger he's phasing through and Mom is over there trying to smooth over the situation. She's under the impression that she can sweep the whole incident under rug. That this whole situation is something everyone is going to look back on and have a good ol' hoot and holler about. You could hear her future rambling now. 'Oh, remember that time, doctor, when my son ripped your very finger right off your palm? Oh, doctor, how times have change.'

Dream on.

In the end of the day you did not get those super tacky braces. Just series of unadulterated disappointment, convoluted sentimentalities, distancing relations, and a handful of court dates.

You sure remember that.

This _incident _wasn't the first, just the first to dive, crash, and explode within a range of unwanted acknowledgement. Much like throwing up on stage, except with further penalizing repercussions other than total humiliation. Humiliation is just a small hit on someone's ego. Framing someone as mentally unstable then hinting the astonishing resemblance you have with Charles Manson and that crazy cat lady who drowned strays down at the lake is beyond taking a hit on ego.

It was more like shoving a grenade down your ego's throat than anything else.

Nonetheless, that day at the orthodontist was just a repeat of what happen at third grade with Jimmy McGinnis. Jimmy was going around telling his peers he just found a breakthrough in detecting cancer. This is how it works: If your hand is bigger than your face than you definitely had the killer C, if not, you get to worry about the remaining travesties life has to offer. You totally didn't believe him. Still you went on measuring your palm to your face. The second you completely blindsided yourself he decked you all the way to Sunday. All the worse for you that it was a Monday morning, at that.

It hurt…a lot. Enough to break your nose and bounce your skull on hopscotch traced concrete floor. You weren't so hot handling the punishment, being you were eight, so you lost it.

Then you forgot everything else. It was that easy. You forgot just like that.

You heard Jimmy fell of the monkey bars that day. He must have lost his grip, one of the teachers had commented, but it didn't explain the sneaker marks on his knuckles when they found him planking on the mulch.

It happened again when you were climbing the neighbor's tree. You couldn't get down, and after the longest of black outs you were in your bed covered in moss and leaves.

Besides the finger incident, the worse episodes were with your father at the warehouse he worked at. For everything you're worth you could never remember what went on in there. Fishy it was when you always came home from the warehouse with scraped knuckles and skinned knees. Dad always told you to keep it on the down low about the father and son outings there. You just let it pass, never pushed further, left it at that.

But leaving it at that isn't working for you anymore, is it. Now you found yourself on a whole new level of absurdities. You were getting older, branching off into something tall and dark, and all the while you hadn't abandon that hopefulness that something better might come your way.

Until you start hearing voices.

_"Mike."_

And I promise you…

_"I'm not the fun kind."_

* * *

_Kudos to shewritesstuff99 for giving out a much needed hand._

Also, I acknowledge you and further ADORE you my reviewers including my anonymous guest which I have plenty of yet just as important.

Oh! Especially you, TheAmazingMisterMorbid, you have become the metaphorical firework to my fiction writing life. Umph!

On another note do expect a longer read in the next coming chapter including interaction and actual PLOT.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. Review.


End file.
